The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Could they not just be stuck in the snow? DCI Daley, I mean, ma’am.’

  ‘Anything is possible. But after what’s happened here over the last few days, we can’t take any chances. I’m not willing to risk the lives of my officers. Even if they are just lost in the snow, how long do you think they’ll last? Do you expect them to build a bloody igloo or something? We have to search.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Scott putting down the phone. Guns and boats, he thought, that’s how I’ll remember this place. Guns and boats.

  He looked at his desk. The photograph of Nathaniel Stuart and the two young children sat amidst old paper clippings, sepia images and other detritus from the old casket of papers from the solicitors. He stared at the young boy’s face but, try as he might, he couldn’t make the connection. He picked the photograph up and thrust it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Beneath lay an old newspaper from the sixties. Another young face stared up at him, from a photograph taken decades later. This time Scott was ready. He grabbed onto the desk and closed his eyes. ‘This is no’ going tae happen again,’ he said, as he heard the familiar whine in his ears and felt his chest contract. He held his breath then let it out slowly. ‘Right, Jimmy, I’m on my way – don’t know how, but I’m coming, mate.’

  Bruce was fumbling in his pockets for his lighter when he heard the large front door creak open again.

  ‘Well done, mate,’ said More. ‘You did what you had to do.’

  ‘I’m not proud of it. I wish to fuck I’d never become involved with this nonsense. I can’t believe I’ve helped give my cousin control of the company.’

  ‘Listen, Bruce, you know the score. Stick to the plan and your cousin won’t be smiling soon, trust me.’

  As he flicked at his lighter, Bruce spotted something at the bottom of the steps, almost obscured by snow. He stepped down to examine what turned out to be a box covered with a thick layer of black duct tape. He picked it up and shook it, then turned it over. Ailsa Shannon, c/o Kersivay House, read a note covered in polythene and taped to the underside of the box.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked More.

  ‘Don’t know. It’s addressed to my mother,’ said Bruce, still examining the parcel.

  ‘Bloody hell. The way things are going here, it could be anything from a late Christmas present to a parcel bomb. I’d give it to your security boys to open, if I were you.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Bruce. ‘Then they can give it to her. I’m certainly the last person she wants to see bearing gifts right now.’

  Scott had managed to round up three other officers from the town. It left Kinloch woefully undermanned, but these were exceptional circumstances. They collected weapons and body armour and drove through the snow down Kinloch’s Main Street to the pier, where Newell’s RIB was normally berthed. Scott had tried to phone the retired sea captain, but got no reply. He cursed when he saw Newell’s place at the pontoons empty.

  Scott looked around; the pier, deep in snow, appeared deserted. He called Campbell’s home number, deciding that he would have to ask the local lifeboat, of which Campbell was coxswain, to take him to Blaan. After all, the life of his colleague could very well be at stake.

  ‘DS Brian Scott here from Kinloch Police,’ he said, when a woman picked up the phone. ‘Is Mr Campbell there?’

  ‘Hello, Sergeant. No, I’m afraid my husband is off on a mercy mission. The hospital were running out of certain vital medicines and he’s taken the lifeboat across to Ayr to get them. They left about an hour ago.’

  Sure enough, when Scott looked across to the far pier he saw that the large orange-and-blue lifeboat was nowhere to be seen. ‘Fuck, he’s away, right enough . . . I mean, oh, you’re quite right, Mrs Campbell,’ he said, wincing at his oath.

  He looked around; a few fishing boats were moored at the quayside, their tackle, rigging and superstructure covered in thick snow. There was not a soul to be seen.

  ‘Sir, do you hear that?’ asked McKinven, a young constable, standing stiffly in a flak jacket.

  Scott cocked his head to the side. Sure enough there was singing and what sounded like a harmonica coming from further up the pier. He ended the call to Mrs Campbell. ‘Come on, lads.’

  They walked along the snowy quayside until Scott stopped and looked over the edge of the pier where the singing was loudest. The vessel was a fishing boat, but small and old-fashioned, made of wood, unlike the larger, more sturdy modern craft.

  ‘I wish I was in Carrickfergus,’ sang a rough chorus made up of three or four voices.

  ‘You down there!’ shouted Scott to the singers, who were out of sight somewhere aboard the small boat. ‘It’s the police. I need to talk to whoever’s in charge.’

  ‘You better get yourself oot there,’ said a slurred voice that Scott recognised. Eventually after much coughing, swearing and stumbling, a man in an old flat cap poked his head out of the wheelhouse.

  ‘Can I help yous?’ the fisherman slurred.

  ‘Aye, you can. I’m commandeering this boat, in the name of . . . in the name of Her Majesty,’ said Scott, rather unsure under what authority he was about to take the vessel.

  ‘Noo, you’ll find that the law o’ the sea and the law o’ the land are two very different things. For instance, I can stand at the heid o’ this pier and consume as much whisky as I can throw doon my throat, in broad daylight. The minute I step ontae the road, you boys have the right tae huckle me away up the brae tae the cells.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Jeest an illustration o’ how you’ve nae powers tae order me tae gie you the time o’ day, never mind command o’ my boat.’ The old fisherman crossed his arms, happy with his response.

  ‘What about being drunk in charge o’ a fishing vessel?’ asked Scott, now even more unsure of himself.

  ‘No such charge. The Royal Navy could maybe get me on that but no’ a landlubber like yourself. If I was you I’d get up tae the Douglas Arms. When I was in there a wee while ago – jeest for one, you understand – there was a wile carry-on. Aye, fair brewing it was. Peter Mackintosh had jeest called Tommy Witherspoon a cheat at golf, so you can jeest imagine whoot was aboot tae kick off. Dae yourself a favour and nip it in the bud. If you don’t mind, I’ve a date wae a nice bottle o’ malt and some good friends o’ mine.’ He turned as if to head below, but stopped in his tracks at Scott’s bellow.

  ‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot!’

  Constable McKinven sidled over to Scott, who was now wielding his pistol. ‘Sergeant, I don’t think that’s in force standing orders.’

  ‘I daresay, it’s no’. But if you can tell me the right piece of legislation we need tae quote tae take this tub oot tae Blaan, then be my guest,’ replied Scott, from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Eh, no, we never covered that at the police college.’

  ‘Right, well, at gunpoint it’ll have tae be then. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Superintendent Donald used tae say that all the time.’

  ‘Look what happened to him.’

  Another head appeared around the wheelhouse door. ‘Noo, Dougie, Dougie Dougie,’ said Hamish, looking none too steady on his feet. ‘I’ve been fortunate tae have my ain vessel commandeered by the Constabulary and let me tell you, I made mair money oot it than a whole week at the fishing. Aye, a week o’ proud shoals tae. If you ask me, you’re looking a gift horse in the mouth if you turn this man doon.’

  ‘Oh, you reckon?’ said the fisherman.

  ‘I do that. In any case, I know that bugger wae the gun well enough. He means whoot he says, he’ll likely shoot you in a couple o’ minutes if you don’t bend tae his will.’ He leaned towards the other man. ‘Between you and me, he’s fair nasty wae a drink and it looks as though he’s carrying a cairtful, right now. Jeest smile and take him where he wants tae go. I’ve few enough friends left tae contemplate losing another.’ He winked up at Scott.

  The deal was done. The two other passengers clambered unsteadily up the
ladder to make way for the police officers, who made their way, equally unsteadily, onto the small fishing boat.

  ‘Get me tae Blaan and don’t spare the horses,’ said Scott, anxious to get underway.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said McKinven, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘These old blokes are both drunk.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Do you think they should be taking the boat out? We can’t condone this.’

  ‘Oh, shut up or I’ll shoot you and a’.’

  As the little vessel chugged out into the loch, Scott’s phone rang.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m on my way.’ He listened for a moment. ‘Well, Mr Newell and the lifeboat were unavailable. We might be a wee bit longer than we thought.’ Scott grimaced as the skipper staggered at the wheel.

  34

  The AGM was about to reconvene. When Bruce took his seat, he was surprised to be greeted by a pleasant smile from his mother, though his daughter Nadia looked sullen and resentful.

  As others began to gather around the huge table, Ailsa spoke. ‘Part of a boardroom coup, darling. I knew there was something afoot this year but I didn’t think you were going to be part of it. Well done. You’re normally as transparent as that window. I didn’t think the little plan you mentioned the other day would involve siding with your cousin against me. Perhaps you are a Shannon, after all.’

  Bruce was about to reply when a tall security guard walked up to his mother and handed her the parcel he had found on the front steps. Bruce noticed that the box hadn’t been opened, so guessed that they had scanned it in some way to check for anything untoward. Rather than look at the contents of the package, his mother took it off the table and left it at her feet.

  ‘I wonder what it is?’ said Nadia.

  ‘Oh, most probably some jam or a knitted jumper from one of the villagers. I always get a few things from the ladies of my own vintage. Fewer of us every year, of course,’ said Ailsa, looking suddenly rueful.

  Bruce was puzzled by how well his mother appeared to be taking Maxwell’s victory. He was now solely in charge of everything, the outright boss of a massive organisation. It was something Ailsa had been trying to avoid for a long time. Bruce supposed that she had given up, tired of the constant battle against her nephew. She couldn’t know that Maxwell’s delight at his success was going to be temporary – very temporary.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, as the dark-haired girl walked past him to attend to his cousin. ‘Remember me?’

  She stopped and looked at him for a few moments. ‘From where, exactly?’ she said with a smile.

  ‘The Churchill. You know, in Notting Hill Gate, the night before Hogmanay. Goodness, I must be getting old. Only had eyes for Trenton, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, walking away. ‘You must have me confused with someone else.’

  Bruce thought for a moment. If there was one thing he could do, it was remember a pretty face; even more, it was remember a cute backside. Her blatant lie made him uneasy. He took the phone from his pocket and dialled Casely’s number. Again, it went straight to voicemail.

  He looked back at his mother. As the room came to order, she sat, smiling and seemingly unperturbed.

  Bruce Shannon was confused.

  There was no thought in Daley’s head but the cold and pain in his knees and back. Being trussed up like this for hours was unbearable torture.

  He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t work out whether this was caused by the blow to his head or if he’d been drugged.

  He recalled setting out from Kersivay House, traipsing through the snow towards the glen, but then nothing made sense. He knew that there was something he couldn’t get a hold of; a detail that remained out of reach. Intermittent moans from behind told him that he wasn’t alone in this cold, harsh space; his colleagues were still with him.

  Suddenly someone cried out, a cry of great pain, and Daley was gripped by rough, strong hands. His bonds were untied and he was dragged to his feet; the pain that shot up his legs and back almost made him pass out.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked. His throat was so dry that his words were barely audible. Thoughts of Colin Grant filled his head as a mug full of some stinking brown liquid was thrust in his face and his head was jerked back by the hair. Someone held his nose, his jaw was forced open and the musty, bitter drink was poured into his mouth. Though he coughed and spluttered, he couldn’t resist the swallow reflex, gulping in air in between mouthfuls of the foul drink.

  Suddenly, he felt weak, his body losing sensation from the legs up. He slumped into a pair of strong arms and was dragged out of the cave and onto the rocky shore beyond.

  Daley was aware of the screech of gulls, the crunch of pebbles and then the rough springy grass of the machair under his feet. Before him was an old van coughing clouds of acrid fumes into the cold air. As his captors forced him into the back of the van, he tried to push back, to fight against them, but he was too weak and they pushed him inside easily.

  Before long, the van pulled away and struggled up the path from the shore onto a narrow road, turning quickly onto a forestry track, where a thick canopy of branches sheltered the road from the worst of the snow. Up ahead, a copse of tall oak trees, their bare branches clothed in winter threads, were still beneath a pearlescent sky. A long, dark stone stood out against the white.

  Scott shivered in the wheelhouse of the old fishing boat. He’d been forced to travel aboard a number of different craft since his first trip to Kinloch, but this seemed the slowest of all.

  ‘Can you no’ gie it a bit o’ welly?’ said Scott to the skipper, whom everyone seemed to know as Binder.

  ‘How much fuckin’ welly dae you think we’ve got? We’ll get a good twelve knots oot o’ her wae a fair wind. No’ as much the day, whoot wae the metera . . . the meteorolig . . . wae the current weather conditions,’ he replied, with a distinct slur.

  ‘You’ll no’ beat Newell’s RIB in a standing start, that’s for sure, my man.’

  ‘Och, RIBs. Aye, they’ll go fast, nae bother. You jeest try riding oot a heavy sea on one o’ them, then you’ll know a’ aboot it. You could sail tae America in this vessel wae a sound mind.’

  ‘If you’d twenty years tae spare.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by Constable McKinven poking his head through a hatch at the rear of the wheelhouse. ‘Sergeant Scott, bit of an issue below.’

  ‘What kind of issue?’

  ‘Erm . . . there seems to be rather a lot of water coming in through the side of the boat. That kind of issue.’

  Binder turned and faced the young policeman with a scowl. ‘There’s no’ a vessel afloat that doesna take some water noo and again. Mind, this is a craft made fae the finest timber, the way boats are supposed tae be made. When it’s cauld like this, the wood contracts and you’ll always get a wee bit seepage. If you’d a brain in your heid you’d be getting a couple o’ buckets and bailing oot fae time tae time.’

  ‘The old boy down there is telling us we’ll all end up in a cold watery grave.’

  ‘Och, wid you listen tae it? The younger generation fair scunner me.’

  ‘Constable Dow took his whisky off him. He was worried the old boy was getting the worse for wear.’

  ‘Well, noo, there’s your answer. Gie the man back his whisky and you’ll restore his equilib . . . his equiri . . . his peace o’ mind.’

  ‘Do as he says, son,’ said Scott. ‘Hamish hasn’t died a winter yet. And get a bucket and start getting rid o’ some o’ that water.’ He eyed Binder. ‘How long until we get tae Blaan?’

  The old man squinted into the distance, then stood on tip toes, looking at the lie of the land through the grubby wheel-house window. ‘Dae you know, I’m no’ right sure. Nothing looks right wae a’ this snow lying aboot and that’s a fact.’

  35

  Superintendent Symington stood with DC Dunn at the back of Kersivay House, looking along the glen to where Daley and his party had gone to investigate the encampment s
een by Jock.

  ‘We’ll give DS Scott a few minutes and then we’ll have to go ourselves,’ said Symington. ‘I’ll leave Aitcheson in charge here.’

  ‘Just you and I, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all we can spare. I’m really worried about Daley, as no doubt you are, too. I’ve only been in command here for a few days, I’m not about to lose one of my senior officers – even if he’s decided to quit the job.’

  ‘He hasn’t – I mean, I don’t think he’ll leave ma’am.’

  Symington smiled and looked at the younger woman. There was no doubt she was beautiful, an openness in her innocent face. ‘It was my job to encourage him to stay. I see you’ve succeeded where I failed.’

  ‘I hope so. DCI Daley is too good a detective to be lost to the job, if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am.’

  ‘I need to know I can rely on you out there, Mary.’

  ‘You can, ma’am. No question.’

  There was something about the steely look in Dunn’s eyes that left Symington in no doubt she meant it. ‘No time like the present. Let’s get kitted up. I’ll call DS Scott before we leave.’

  Ailsa cleared her throat and, unusually for a Shannon International board meeting, stood up to speak.

  ‘Before we get this session underway, I would like to congratulate my nephew, Maxwell Shannon, on gaining control over this company. This is something that he has coveted, as we all know, for a very long time. It must be a great triumph to him that he has now succeeded.’ This was greeted with mumbled expressions of congratulation, the muted nature of which spoke volumes as to the real mood of the room now that the reality of Maxwell’s Shannon’s victory had sunk in. It was clear that even some of those who had voted for him weren’t entirely at peace with themselves. As for Maxwell, he was leaning back in his big leather chair, his hands behind his head, a large smile plastered across his face.